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Margaret narrowed her eyes and stared at the spider on the ceiling, making a mental note to speak with Nora when she arrived on Monday morning.

She moved with measured steps – no longer for effect, but because it was the only way she could hope to successfully cross the room – and settled into a chair to wait. It was all she seemed to do these days.

It was a far cry from the years when she’d taken for granted the number of people who waited for her, people who paid or were paid to do so.

For she was Margaret MacInnes.

Unbidden, her eyes focussed on the wall opposite. It was bare now, but for the floral arrangement that Nora hated to dust.

Philip had been her other half, her soul’s mate, but the piano that had graced that wall had been an extension of her self.

It did not deserve to be punished for her body’s failings, and when Philip died, there was no longer any need to indulge his sentimentality, so she severed that connection as well. It was preferable to being forced to watch it deteriorate as she had her hands.

Thanks! When I started this (in longhand on the bus the other day), there was to be more — a happy ending even — but when I sat down to transcribe and finish, Margaret wasn’t in the mood. Maybe a later prompt will let me tell the rest 🙂

I feel particularly sad for this Margaret. It is as though the piano contained so much of who she was that she has pushed herself away. I have a horrible sense of waiting for the end with this story – which I mean as a good thing 😀

I can only imagine how horrible it would be to be a pianist and to find your hands no longer work the way you need them to. I’m not sure whether it’s the better road to keep trying as long as you can or to do as Margaret did and just turn away from the whole thing while you can still have all the perfect memories.

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